


Lather, Indulge, Rinse.

by ShinySherlock ficlets (ShinySherlock)



Series: assorted tumblr ficlets [52]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Hair Washing, Home remedies, Implied Consent, Intimacy, Luxury, M/M, Pre-Slash, Scents & Smells, Touching, both good and bad, don't worry they end up fresh as a daisy, expensive french shampoo, showering together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7476432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock%20ficlets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Like this,” Sherlock said, and he reached for John’s head. John stood perfectly still as Sherlock cupped the back of his skull, sank his fingers into John’s short hair, and <i>scrubbed</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lather, Indulge, Rinse.

**Author's Note:**

> Anon requested "sherlock and john washing each other's hair." :)

“Jesus,” John swore yet again, the smell of fetid water still clinging to his hair, despite the hot shower he had just taken. He thought he might pass out on the tube ride home; Greg had flat out refused to give them a ride in his police car.

Sherlock jumped into the shower the instant John stepped out, caring not at all that they were both naked, so desperate was he to wash the stench off himself. He pulled the curtain closed and threw on the showerhead.

“Burn all the clothes,” Sherlock ordered, voice only slightly muffled by the sound of streaming water. 

That sounded like a brilliant idea. John wrapped a towel tightly around his waist and padded out into the kitchen to fetch a bin bag and gloves, returning to the bathroom to shove all their ruined clothing into the bag.

“Even your coat?” John hollered.

“I’ll buy another one.”

John nodded. Mycroft would be the one buying him another one, no doubt. Sherlock had lifted his brother’s credit card only the day before, not nearly long enough for Mycroft to miss it yet. John tied the bag up tightly and hauled it to the kitchen door.

He ran a hand through his hair and then cautiously smelled his fingers.

_ Good God.  _

Scanning the room, he found his laptop buried amid the junk atop the kitchen table, and, extracting it, he searched for “how to get horrible smell out of hair.”

Baking soda. Tomato juice. Milk of Magnesia?  _ Really? _

But John was desperate. He gathered the ingredients and made himself a sort of lumpy paste. Bowl in hand, he headed back to the bathroom.

Or, perhaps more accurately, the steam room, since Sherlock appeared to be trying to burn the smell off of himself via the hottest water he could summon. John left the door open and wiped at the mirror with a hand towel until he could see himself. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, peeking his head around the shower curtain.

“Home remedy. My hair still smells like sewage.”

Sherlock darted forward, making a grab for the bowl in John’s hands. “Bring it here.”

“Oi!” He clutched it close to his belly. “Make your own tomato indigestion gruel!”

Sherlock frowned.  He reached over to turn off the water and then stepped, completely starkers, out of the shower. John frowned in return, averting his gaze--which was exactly what Sherlock needed to snatch the bowl from John’s hands.

He popped back into the shower, ignoring John’s protests, but if Sherlock thought a little nudity was going to keep John from getting his potion back from Sherlock, then he was no genius. Ripping back the curtain, John stepped right into the shower, his eyes murderous.

“Fine. I’m done anyway,” Sherlock said airily, wiping his fingers off along the top of his hair.

Since there was still plenty of the concoction in the bowl, John decided not to murder him just now. 

“You missed a bit. In the back.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose and then pressed the bowl into John’s hands, turning around and presenting the back of his head to John. 

Realizing Sherlock meant for John to apply the pink porridge to the back of his head, John rolled his eyes so hard it should have been audible. He took a careful step forward and slapped a handful of the glop onto Sherlock’s wet curls. 

“There you go,” John said, and then began to apply the potion to his own hair before Sherlock could steal any more of it. 

Sherlock turned his head just enough to glare at John. “Honestly, John. You have no finesse at all.”

But John was having none of it; they were only in this literal mess because of Sherlock as it was, and John was nearly ready to kick Sherlock and his tomato-y tresses out of the shower, but then Sherlock was turning.

“Like this,” Sherlock said, and he reached for John’s head. John stood perfectly still as Sherlock cupped the back of his skull, sank his fingers into John’s short hair, and  _ scrubbed _ .

It felt amazing. Sherlock’s fingers snaked over his scalp in smooth strokes, his nails scratching gently in a motion that managed to be relaxing and invigorating at the same time. John felt his eyes flutter closed, felt his body lean into Sherlock’s touch. He had a fleeting thought that perhaps this was an odd activity to be engaging in for the both of them, but his definition of odd activity had changed a long time ago and it just felt so very good.

“You have to reach down to the scalp,” Sherlock was saying. “Stimulates the follicles.”

Something about that made John pause, and he opened his eyes. “Mmm. Right.” He cleared his throat, and Sherlock dropped his hands away, a small smile playing at his lips.

“Don’t forget,” Sherlock said, scooping out another portion of goop, “the average male form has a significant amount of body hair.”

John only blinked at him. Sherlock demonstrated by applying the paste to his left armpit, and John finally cottoned on.

“Right.” 

John turned away, his back to Sherlock, and removed his towel from his waist, tossing it out onto the bathroom floor. Focusing on the task, he mostly avoided thinking about the fact that both of them were naked--or about how Sherlock’s voice sounded when he had said “stimulates”--as he slathered the paste on his armpits, chest, crotch. 

He heard Sherlock turn on the water, and they moved around each other awkwardly until they were both rinsed clean of the concoction. 

“Better?” Sherlock asked, dipping his head down so that John could sniff his hair. John gave up on worrying about how weird things were and just took a deep sniff.

“No longer smells like pond scum,” John said. “More . . . eau de bicarbonate of tomato.”

Sherlock looked up and frowned. “Oh, we can do better than that.”

He reached around John, though it felt rather more to John as though Sherlock were lunging towards him, and he leaned back, the shower spray hitting the back of his neck now. Sherlock produced a dark teal bottle of shampoo and squirted a dollop into his hand.

“Here,” he said, and without hesitation he moved his hands to John’s head and began working the shampoo into a lather. 

The scent of summer fruit hit him first, followed by the smell of what he imagined a meadow in Switzerland might smell like on a sunny day. He’d seen the bottle in the bathroom, of course, but never bothered to smell it before. Now, he realized, what he was smelling was, well,  _ Sherlock _ \--bright and complex and wonderful. To also have Sherlock’s fingers working his scalp, running over his head and neck in pleasing arcs, was something divine, and John closed his eyes and hummed out a groan of pleasure.

“This is some magic shampoo,” was all he could say.

Sherlock laughed softly, the laugh that meant he was amused and genuinely pleased. “Not magic. Science.”

“To-may-to, to-mah-to.”

Sherlock stifled a chuckle, but John began sniggering and then they were both giggling. Sherlock lowered his hands from John’s head and reached around him again, grabbing a washcloth and the body wash tube that matched the shampoo. He pressed some out onto the cloth and worked it into a lather. His eyes met John’s, asking a question silently that John had no intention of answering aloud. Instead, John simply kept meeting his gaze, his face and body relaxed. He made no move to stop Sherlock as he reached forward and began running the sudsy cloth over John’s chest.

There was something calming, something utterly intimate and luxurious about letting go, John thought as Sherlock continued swiping the cloth over him. Something wonderful about choosing not to worry and just enjoy the sensation of someone else touching him, caring for him. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d allowed himself that. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock ever allowing it--but that wouldn’t keep John from trying. For now, he tipped his head back, letting the warm water sluice over him as Sherlock tended to him.

In the end, John didn’t have to try very hard. As Sherlock finished with him, John simply took the cloth from his unresisting hand. When John moved to trade places with him, Sherlock acquiesced without comment. John mirrored what Sherlock had done for him, just in reverse, starting low and making his way up Sherlock’s body with the washcloth, moving in easy, even strokes. Sherlock stood still, keeping his eyes open the entire time to scan John’s face. If he was looking for signs of hesitancy, some sort of identity crisis, he would be disappointed. John was as calm and relaxed as he had been whilst Sherlock was touching him. After a few minutes, Sherlock seemed to accept this--his posture relaxed, his eyelids lowered to half-mast. By the time John sank his hands into Sherlock’s hair, his eyes were closed.

“Mmmph,” he said as John mimicked what Sherlock had done to him-- fingertips firmly gliding over the scalp, nails raking back now and then in a way that would send a shiver down the spine. John worked the lather through Sherlock’s dark, slick hair until it was spongy with suds, his fingers massaging and caressing along hairline, scalp, nape. Sherlock leaned into the touch, seeking John, and John could not resist winding his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and tugging, just to see--

Sherlock’s little gasp was immediate, and he made no move to stifle or cover it. That little gasp was everything, telling John how affected Sherlock was, how much he was also letting go, allowing himself to simply feel and enjoy. He felt honored, yes, but also proud to have Sherlock’s trust, his vulnerability, almost literally in his hands. He would remember this moment forever, the soft moans he seemed to pull from Sherlock, the way Sherlock pressed into his palm like a cat, the scent of steam and summer surrounding them. 

And then it was over; John let his hands fall away. Sherlock dipped his head under the water. They maneuvered around each other, rinsed off. John stepped out first, grabbing two dressing gowns off the back of the door, handing Sherlock his, pulling on his own. 

The steam dissipated and the mirror cleared, and they looked at each other.

“Tea?” Sherlock asked.

“Tea,” John answered, and they both went into the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the actual instructions on [this fancy shampoo](http://www.oribe.com/shop/shampoos-conditioners/shampoo-for-moisture-control.html).


End file.
